Here Without Me
by blufiresprite
Summary: He left her that night. She's never quite been able to outlive it. HGRW
1. Alone

**A/N:** I've been wanting to write this fic for a while; I've just been waiting for the right time and right inspiration.

Seems I've finally found it. . . .

**Disclaimer:** Honestly, not mine—I swear!

The clouds had grayed slowly over time; the sun no longer shone as brightly; eyes no longer twinkled. People frowned, furrowed their eyebrows, rarely smiled and never laughed. Life raced during the day—a melded blur of morning and afternoon—and night emphasized every second, every moment, every numbed feeling during the day. The darkness had swallowed her whole and cloaked her in what was unmistakably a lullaby played continuously in a minor key. She lulled about looking but not quite seeing; hearing but not quite listening; and feeling but it was never quite any specific emotion. None that she could identify, anyway.

Night had always been her weakness. She had fallen into the cold, slimy grasp of melancholy and it wouldn't let go. Depression is a strange and unusual thing; a horrible, disastrous thing and although it is terrible enough to not provide mercy to the pessimist, it is great in all its melancholy beauty. And once trapped in its bitter, slithering clutches, the optimist cannot help but to adhere to his or her emotional web: an intricate, complex, and usually barren light that can either be turned on or off.

At the moment, Hermione's light was well beyond dim, beyond off. It had disappeared.

Along with him.

It was the night that took him away. The night had brought death. The night had brought pain which wrapped around her stiff shoulders like a shawl. And it seemed to be there underneath her skin, never willing to go. She would never let it go.

_'I have to go, Hermione. He needs me,' he said pleadingly._

_It wasn't that she didn't want him to help his friend; she just didn't want him to leave her._

_'Please don't go,' she whispered. _

But he went anyway. Despite her efforts and despite his promise, he left her. He left her and never came back. He left her forever. It had been a year since that day. She was just beginning to understand why she felt so calm and relaxed and comforted around him. He had a power over her; he had her heart. And she didn't notice until he never returned. And never gave it back.

She looked up at the colourless sky and took another sip of her coffee. It was here, here at this very table where they last sat together for their last everything. Hermione absentmindedly wiped away his nonexistent spilled tea. She looked at imagined eyes and spoke in her head, relaying her thoughts and replaying their last conversation over and over again. _If only I'd said something, _she thought. _Something different from everything else, something that would have stopped him . . . maybe he'd be here._

A fat drop of liquid dribbled onto the metal surface of the table. She ignored it; she was probably crying again. She did that a lot. She would cry for hours and not fully realize it until she felt she could no longer breathe. Another drop spilled, and soon another and another.

The sky rumbled and the Earth trembled. Again she glanced at the sky. _So it really is gray_, she thought. She stared at it and shook her head back, her coffee left forgotten. She let the rain consume her. It slickly caressed her firm skin. It soaked through her being and she closed her eyes, almost smiling. Hermione loved it when the heavens agreed with her. Passerby looked at her sympathetically as she unknowingly danced through the fierce storm. She didn't care; she had danced many a storms before. Lightning crackled above her and splayed across the thick, thunderous atmosphere.

Summer had never felt so incinerating. It was usually filled with fun, with laughs, with love. But that she had lost. Tears and anguish was all she had left. She kicked at the puddles and covered herself in mud. Hermione lifted her hands to the sky as it again rumbled violently. Her bag under the table was never once hit by the pouring rain. She spotted it quite suddenly—in the middle of a spin and kicked it out onto the street, its contents spilling out every which way. Hermione gasped as a tightly rolled-up scroll of parchment with a scarlet ribbon was washed away towards by a splash of rainwater. She flailed after it, forgetting every thing else currently being whipped about by the wind and lashed by the furious downpour.

She ran after it as it floated down the fast stream, heading towards the drain. The scroll was suddenly whisked over the drain as an automobile drove by and splashed her mud-covered jeans. It turned a corner into a dark alleyway. She ran even harder through the murky rain.

_'Miss Granger?' an official-looking man said in her doorway. It had been nearly a month since she had asked him not to go._

_'Yes, that's me. Do you have any word on a "Ronald Weasley?"' she asked, urgently._

_The man looked away from her. 'Er, yes. He has been missing for a while—he was reported missing the same night as a large group of people were kidnapped, tortured, and eventually killed by Lord—erm, by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Their bodies, however, haven't been found. It seems they all just . . . disappeared.'_

_Hermione looked at him, puzzled. 'What do you mean? You're saying he's gotten killed just because you can't find him!'_

_The man unraveled a piece of parchment with a scarlet ribbon and handed it to her. 'Here's the report, miss. I'm really sorry,' he said._

_She took the scroll from him and threw it on the floor. 'You can't tell me he's gone!' she shrieked confused. She blinked furiously, trying to prevent the tears from spilling out onto her face, but it was useless. She ran towards the man, fists clenched. 'You _can't_ tell me he's _gone,_' she whispered with all the energy she could muster. She felt suddenly tired, as if all life had been suddenly drained out of her. She shook violently and had to hold on to her door behind her for support. _

_The man backed away, looking at the ground. 'I'm really sorry,' he said again, softly. And with that he Disapparated. Hermione felt like this man had taken her with him._

_She never saw him again. And she never got herself back again either._

_Just a parchment.__ With a scarlet ribbon._

She snatched up the parchment by the ribbon and the oddest thing occurred: the parchment slipped out from the ribbon and with a slow splash landed a few meters away from the drain. With a blink of an eye, as Hermione struggled to reach it in time, a large rush of rainwater embedded it within its powerful current and pushed it into the drain.

Hermione blinked again. She had never opened it.

_Just a ribbon,_ she thought, and the night overtook her again.

Tears ran down her face as she sat on the curb, the storm raging overhead. _Just a ribbon_. With the ribbon she very haphazardly tied it in her hair and curled up on the wet sidewalk.

The day Ron had been killed was the day of the Last Battle between Good and Evil. It had been rough and tremendously difficult. In some ways, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived had triumphed. He had saved wizard and Muggle-kind alike. But he had lost his best friend. It had been a year since he had spoken to Hermione. He couldn't confront her. He couldn't even confront himself. He had let his best friend die. He had asked him for help; Ron complied and had trusted him. Yet he had let him die. He had let him take Hermione with him.

The rain had become a part of Hermione now. She was soaked through and shaking intensely. Not because of the cold, but because of the hurt. She closed her eyes and saw his face. She squeezed her eyes tightly, trying to somehow make it vanish. She didn't need it now. She blinked a few times and looked at the sky. But she didn't see the sky. Instead, she saw a rosy, freckled-face, red-headed man staring down her.

She quickly sat up. 'Ron?' she whispered. But she closed her eyes. She was imagining it. It couldn't be him. He was dead. _Dead,_ she thought to herself.

Strong arms embraced her and untied the ribbon from her hair. 'It's alright, 'Mione. I'm here,' said a very Ron-ish voice.

But Hermione wouldn't let herself believe. She had let herself get too carried away with imagined conversations and dreams and fantasies that he still met her at the café, that he still came around her house to 'borrow coffee,' and that he still randomly peered into her cubicle in the Aurors' work section to kiss her hand.

Still, she welcomed the fantasy that held her now, so warm, so close, and so real. She opened her eyes again. He was still there, and looked much different.

'Ron?' she whispered again.

'Hermione,' he said.

Hermione's eyes widened.

And she fell back, the darkness coming at her fast.

It was the last thing she remembered, before awaking. She smelled coffee brewing, and heard a tea kettle whistling. Her vision came slowly, and her situation real. She was lying in a couch, a heavy blanket resting upon her chest.

'Ron?' she said. Although she felt weak, her voice was strong and echoed around the room hollowly.

She heard footsteps approach her slowly, hesitantly. 'I was afraid you'd never wake up,' said the very familiar voice.

She sat up abruptly as it dawned on her, the possibility. Perhaps all her hoping and praying hadn't gone to waste after all. 'Ron? Is that really you?' she asked almost desperately.

The other person walked into the room and set down a cup of coffee on the table beside Hermione. 'Yes,' he said.

She wouldn't look at him. She breathed in very deeply when he sat down next to her on the couch and the two didn't say anything for a long time.

Ron spoke first. 'Hermione,' he started tentatively. 'I know this is very difficult to understand, but please look at me.'

Hermione shut her eyes and quickly wiped away the tears that had already started to fall. 'I—I can't, Ron. I can't,' she whispered. 'Just . . . hold me.'

Ron did as he was told. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. Hermione cried against his chest, and soon she wasn't the only one shaking with overwhelming emotion. They stayed that way for a while, Ron's hands occasionally entangling themselves in her long, wet hair, and her hands slowly adjusting themselves into clenched fists. She hit his chest. He held her tighter. She sobbed and muttered incoherent accusations at him for leaving her. And he whispered apologies into her hair.

'I'm sorry, love,' he said, once he had gotten himself under control.

She finally looked up at him. His face had grown paler, sallower, and more tired. His shoulders were broader, but she could feel he had lost a lot of weight. His eyes weren't as bright and full of life as they were the night she begged him not to go. His hair, on the contrary, looked like a bright torch, but was much longer and fell into his rugged countenance. 'What happened to you?' was the only thing she said.

He sighed and hugged her. To her hair, he said, 'I was taken away.'

'I know that much, Ronald. You wouldn't just leave,' Hermione said.

He took a deep breath and continued. 'I was taken away by a band of Death Eaters, along with seventeen other people. They portkeyed us to some remote land and abandoned us. It was the most horrible thing, Hermione. We didn't know how to survive, whether to expect a cold winter or not, if there were predators—if the Death Eaters would come back. We worked night and day to plot a way out—'

'Why didn't you use your wands?'

'Magic wasn't working—in fact, it was making everything worse,' he said. 'The point is that it took us a whole of a year to get back home. I suppose you also thought I was dead?' he asked.

She nodded, feeling too foolish to say anything.

'You acted a lot like Mum. She fainted, too,' he said smiling a little. 'Dad, on the other hand couldn't say much of anything other than, "I thought I lost you, boy." Once Mum awoke, she just hugged the life out of me and wouldn't stop crying.'

'Your poor Mum!' cried Hermione. 'Is she alright?'

He smiled. 'Yeah, almost didn't want me to go find you and Harry.'

Hermione looked away from him at the mention of Harry. 'Have you seen Harry?' she asked, her voice impassive.

Ron shook his head. 'I was hoping you could tell me where he lived. I came round his house, but apparently he's moved.'

'Sorry,' she said, unwrapping herself from him. 'I can't help you. I haven't spoken to Harry in a year.'

Ron looked absolutely puzzled. 'But—I thought you two were friends?' he asked.

Hermione looked up at him, ready to burst in tears again. 'I don't think neither of us has forgiven the other for your disappearance, Ron. Actually, no—that's not true. Neither of us have been able to forgive ourselves . . . I don't think we've ever gotten over you, Ron. Otherwise, I think we'd have had contact already,' she said. She was full out crying now; her heart ached without her two best friends. Now that she'd found one and had to admit not only to him, but to herself as well, that she hadn't spoken to the other in a full year had truly devastated her. And it was all because she couldn't get over the fact that she let the man she loved slip between her fingers, away from both her and Harry. She loved Ron. She did. When he left and (seemingly) died, it was impossible to face Harry. Impossible.

Ron took her in his arms again. 'It's okay, 'Mione. We'll find him, I promise. And there's one other thing, too,' Ron said.

Hermione wiped her eyes and asked, 'What?'

'I've met the girl of my dreams, 'Mione,' he said, his eyes sparkling. 'And I'd like you to meet her, too. Tomorrow night. What do you think?' he asked, grinning.

Hermione's eyes widened and she buried her face in his chest as she said, 'I'd love to.' She wept again, and Ron held her tightly.

She had really meant to say 'I love you.' Not then, not now when they were being reunited. She wanted to say it the night they had been forever separated.

_You've waited too long,_ a voice in her head said.

'It's too late,' she whispered to herself as she walked home.

**A/N: **What do you think? . . . It seems a bit strange, I know. But **REVIEW!**

Cheers and tootles!

blufiresprite


	2. Second Union

**A/N:** Well, I certainly received more reviews than I expected, but I am happy nonetheless. Thank you all very much and hopefully you'll do me the favour of reviewing again.

I am bored and my friend Adriana is a nerd

**Disclaimer:**

Pronunciation: -'klA-m&r  
Function: _noun_  
**1 a**: a denial or disavowal of legal claim relinquishment of or formal refusal to accept an interest or estate **b:** a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer

Get the picture?

She took the Muggle way (i.e. walk to bus stop, take bus, walk to destination). It was prudent to take the Muggle way of transport if she were going to visit a church. Hermione had often wondered about what the Church would say if it found out about the Wizarding World. She figured it would order some Crusade against all who possessed a wand. This was partly the reason, she had learned, that the Wizarding World kept to itself as much as possible; when the two worlds crossed, it was no wonder why many memories had to be amended.

Walking to the bus stop she realized she was still wearing the mud-stained jeans and wrinkled sweater of the night before. She felt her hair; the ribbon was tangled in there somewhere, too. Ron hadn't completely captured it yesterday. She shook her head. She mustn't think of that now—she had to resolve something else before she faced him and his 'love' that night. As she stepped into the bus, she caught a glance at her reflection in a large mirror. She looked _nothing_ like herself. Not only did her hair resemble a rat's nest, but there were dark circles under her eyes and dirt on her cheeks and hands.

She was a mess. Hermione was never so untidy. She could remember a time when she took pride in her neatness—when she would tut disapprovingly at Harry and Ron when she peeked into their dorm. But that was ages ago—centuries, it seemed.

She looked away from herself and paid the driver (or rather, the little box next to the driver) the due amount for a ride and made her way through the vehicle searching for a seat. All around passengers stared at her in a very rude, judgmental way. One woman in particular glanced up from her newspaper, sneered at Hermione's appearance and went back to reading. Hermione groaned. Again she was reminded of a time when she would have said something—stood up for herself—and when she herself would be holding a copy of the same newspaper and sit down far away from the woman and be content in reading it.

She had cancelled her subscription of _The Daily Prophet_.

Sitting in an empty seat, Hermione collected her thoughts, her heart. She could feel it breaking more and more with each passing moment. Not willing to let tears fall again, she turned to look out the window and vaguely wondered when her eyes would finally run out of the boxed-up emotions. Outside, she watched as people on the streets, people in cars and people in shops blurred into one mesh of colour. On the Knight Bus she wouldn't even be able to tell the difference between the sky and the floor. She hadn't gone on that bus in over a year. Had she still read _The Daily Prophet_, she would have known it had gone out of business quickly when Voldemort decided to hijack the entire station and use the busses as his own means of transport. But that was a year ago. Now, the Knight Bus was to Hermione simply what it was to any other witch or wizard that had ever ridden it: a distant memory.

When the driver announced her stop, Hermione trudged down the aisle again, head down, unwilling to face the derogatory faces of so many.

'Look at her hair!' she heard a little girl say, giggling.

'Now, now, Audrey. It isn't polite to laugh at someone, no matter how—how _shabby_ that person is,' said a voice, which Hermione deduced to be Audrey's mother.

She glanced back at the two of them and spotted them easily. The woman with the newspaper apparently kept her daughter hidden behind large sheets of print. She narrowed her eyes at the duo and stalked out of the bus in rage.

'The audacity!' she muttered to herself. 'Oh, honestly! If only I'd brushed my hair this morning—that woman is so shallow! And her daughter—poor thing, learning such a superficial life!'

She quietly entered the church and crossed herself upon finding the gentle eyes of the Virgin Mary. She had no idea how witch and Jesus would ever get along but it seemed so. Carefully, she dipped her hands in a bowl of Holy Water and again crossed herself, bowing her head and saying a quick 'Hail Mary.' She then proceeded to kneel at a pew, hands together as she recited what she was taught in Primary School.

She prayed for the woman with the newspaper and her mean little daughter and asked for forgiveness for being so rude as well (even though they deserved it). Hermione tentatively finished her prayers and moved on to walk to the back door. She very cautiously slipped through the black door and stepped outside to a graveyard. She kept her head bowed—she knew the way well. She often came to this church to visit. Seldom did she find any mourning company, but as she walked she noticed a familiar figure in the distance which faintly rang a bell in her distant memory.

It seemed this person was there to carry out the same purpose with which Hermione had also endowed upon herself that morning.

'Harry?' she said quietly. She was certain she wasn't dreaming him up like she thought when she saw Ron.

The raven-haired man turned around suddenly at her voice and his bottle-green eyes sparkled. 'Hermione!' he exclaimed, and before Hermione could even register his existence he had her wrapped in a very tight, very warm, and very long hug. 'Oh, I've missed you so much,' Harry said. He pulled her from him at arm's length and declared, eyes shining, 'I'm sorry.'

Hermione smiled at him. It was the very first smile that had fully blossomed from her lips in a year. 'It's alright, Harry,' she said and then frowned. She looked up at him and studied his figure. He was very fit and he had finally grown into his face. It was much sharper, but still full of that joyous charm she was sure came directly from his father, James. He still wore the same, round glasses and there, just beneath the untamed mop of hair of his was that lightning-shaped scar. She grinned. '_I've _missed you,' she said. She hugged him. '_I'm_ sorry.'

Her words hung in the air, frozen. Harry looked as if he hadn't comprehended a bit of her short apology. He glanced at the grave they had come to see and looked at her again. 'Hermione—why—?' he said.

But she swiftly cut him off, 'Harry, he left me and asked me to stay at home, to wait for him that last battle. I told him not to go. I should have kept him home—or I should have gone and fought—or maybe I just should have done _something_ and then—_no_ one would have—have to go through this.' Hermione was hiccupping rather unattractively.

Harry pulled her into another hug and whispered to her to calm down, that it wasn't her fault. And then he let her go.

He walked towards the grave and Hermione followed suit. Harry sat on the ground and fingered the rose he had laid carefully on the side of the tombstone. 'I can't believe you,' he whispered unexpectedly. 'I don't understand why you'd think you were at fault. I thought you were angry with me. And all this time—ALL THIS TIME!—you thought—you thought _I_ was mad at you? Unbelievable, Hermione,' he said sadly.

'Harry?' said she, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off. 'You don't understand do you?' He didn't wait for her reply. 'You don't why it was that I've been avoiding you?' He snapped his head around to face hers. Hermione saw the tears threatening to spill. It seemed Harry noticed them, too, for he dropped his head and turned around again. '_I_ asked him to go. _I _didn't look after him! _I_ let you turn into this—this heartbroken sob-story. I didn't mean it, Hermione. I didn't mean it. I was just too preoccupied with Lord Voldemort! I didn't want him to go, 'Mione. I didn't want Ron to be taken away—I saw it happen, and that idiot Voldemort wouldn't let me get past him. I could have saved him, Herm, I could've saved you, too.' Harry's shoulders were shaking as he sobbed a pain he hadn't yet realized.

Hermione stepped towards him and tried again. 'No one blames you, Harry,' she said hesitantly.

'Of course everyone blames me!' he shrieked, and he fell to the damp ground. '_I _WAS THE ONE WHO LET HIM GO, DAMNIT!' Harry was shaking all over again.

Hermione's own tears couldn't handle themselves anymore. She kneeled and sat herself next to Harry. She offered a friendly hug and Harry, quite reluctantly, accepted. The two cried quietly for some time, and Hermione felt her heart ache; it was almost like last night, when she cried onto Ron's shoulder. But now it was Harry who needed to be held and loved and understood. It was he, Harry, who needed a friend. Even if they hadn't said a word to each other in over a year, it was almost as if they had restarted a conversation left in the air the day before. _Only it was a year ago, _Hermione found herself thinking.

'Harry?' she whispered once he had quieted down again.

Harry looked down at her, glasses askew on his nose and emerald eyes shining. 'Yeah?' he asked.

'Don't . . . don't curse in a churchyard, Harry. It isn't wise.'

Harry smiled a little and he clobbered her over the head playfully. 'Yes, Mum,' he said.

They were sitting on the very moist grass of the graveyard. Hermione almost cringed as she looked at the words carved unto the tombstone: _RONALD WEASLEY, 1980-1998; Son, Friend, and Loving Brother._

'He was more than just a loving brother,' Harry said quietly, looking at his best friend.

Her cheeks pinked, but her eyes were sad. 'Yes, he _was_,' she said, putting careful emphasis on the past tense verb that caused her to wonder, _What if?_

'You still love him.'

He said it as a statement, not as a question. She answered as such anyway. 'Yes, I do. Very much.'

'And now he's got a—a "dream girl." I was surprised he didn't propose the first time he saw you.'

He and Hermione were very quiet for a quite a long time.

'I can't go tonight, Harry,' Hermione said in an urgent whisper.

'Yes, you can and you must! If Ron—your best friend, mind you—has found the One, you can't just not go meet her.'

Hermione looked at him quizzically. Since when was _Harry_ reasonable?

He looked back at her, just as bewildered. 'What?' he asked, grinning a bit.

'Er—just, what did you do with yourself in a year? I mean, you're all . . . _logical_ now. Definitely not Harry.'

'Thanks, Hermione,' Harry said sarcastically. 'I really appreciate being called irrational.'

Hermione blushed. 'What I mean is—_why_ have you changed so much in one year?'

'Well, I suppose it's because my logical friend wasn't there when I needed her most so I had learn to live . . . independently. It's kind of hard when I've been attached at the hip with you and Ron for so long.' He meant it as a joke, but Hermione didn't laugh.

Instead, she sighed. 'Ron,' she stated. 'I can't see him, tonight, Harry. I just—I can't face him if he's going to introduce me to his supposed new love. It'd be humiliating and heartbreaking.'

Harry gave her a sideways glance and grinned devilishly. 'I was planning on bringing a date, and if you want, I could "escort" you—accompany you, or whatever.'

He was being generous, Hermione realized, and she liked it a lot. But she didn't want to bring a date, even if it _was _just Harry. 'I couldn't,' she said to him. 'It wouldn't be fair to either of us. You go ahead and bring a date, only don't completely ignore me.'

'I would never! . . . I mean, apart from this last year and all . . .' he said.

Hermione smiled sadly.

'It's been a long year without you. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for you, though. You lost _me_—so obviously, that had to hurt,' he said cockily, which made Hermione grin. 'But also, Ron. The man you love. And now—now the oblivious dolt wants to get you to meet his—his "true love?" He's very much mistaken. Don't you remember when you went to the Yule Ball with Krum?'

'Yeah,' Hermione said, smiling at the memory.

'He was maddeningly jealous! And then fifth year, when you kissed him on the cheek before the Quidditch match? I swear he wasn't concentrating on the game because of you! Oh man, I was so angry with him afterwards. I was screaming at him! Telling him he should just go snog you instead of screwing up our Quidditch points. And you know what he said?'

Hermione was blushing furiously, but still she asked, intrigued, 'What?'

'He said to me, "It's not that easy! I mean, what if she doesn't like me back? What if she hates me as much as it seems she does when we argue? What if—what if she likes someone else? What if he isn't good enough for her? What would I do then? I couldn't just get over her, I lo—I really, really like her. Ugh! Being in love is very distracting!" Imagine that, he admitted he loved you in fifth year!' Harry said this very excitedly.

Hermione began playing with her hair. She was digesting this information very slowly. What kind of woman could make a very in-love man fall in love suddenly with that other woman? _She must be gorgeous,_ she thought.

'No, I never thought Ron was that shallow,' Harry said thoughtfully.

Or had she just thought that?

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'C'mon! Don't you remember Fleur?' she asked with disbelief.

Harry's eyebrows rose. 'Don't you? She was Veela.'

Hermione looked away. _She_ had been very jealous of that girl that just came by and turned Ron into a flopping, gaping fish. But then again, she had never wanted to see Ron act that way again. It was much too awful.

All of a sudden, a beeping, rather annoying sound disturbed their conversation. Harry jumped up and pulled his left sleeve up. He looked at his watch and then back at Hermione. 'That's my alarm. Sorry, 'Mione. I have to go meet Claudette.'

'Claudette?' Hermione asked.

Harry sighed. 'Yeah, she's been after me for ages. She told me if I gave her a shot and I still wasn't interested, she would never bother me again.' He looked up at the sky and quite exasperated said, 'Don't believe her, though.'

Hermione laughed. 'Well, aren't you the Wizarding World's most wanted bachelor?'

Harry blushed and he looked very uncomfortable. 'By _Witch Weekly_'s standards, anyway.' He ran a hand through his hair. 'Er, anyway—I'll see you tonight, Hermione. I can't possibly imagine how it'd feel to go through with what's coming, but you'd have to do it eventually. You couldn't just shut off your best friend after he practically resurrected himself.'

Once again, his reason astounded Hermione. She was really fascinated with how compassionate he was and just how selfish she had become.

'Will you meet me outside The Three Broomsticks just so I don't faint on the way to seeing Ron again?' Hermione asked timidly.

'Of course,' Harry said, and he pulled her up from the ground and hugged her. 'I'd better be off, then,' he said. And he walked slowly towards the back door of the cathedral. It seemed Harry too was respectful of the church's beliefs and also followed the Muggle way out.

Hermione paid her last respects to the false grave and slid her wand through her sleeve. She magicked the tombstone so that it now read: _RONALD WEASLEY: Alive and Well, Please Reuse Grave Site_.

She turned. That's all she needed for closure.

Now, it was the future that lay ahead of her instead of the past and what could have been. It was the future and what was going to happen.

It was a future without Ron.

**A/N: **Review!

—blufiresprite


	3. Growing Wildflower

**A/N: **Here is Chapter 3 of this sad, sad tale. (I swear it'll get better, people!)

**CONTAINS HBP SPOILERS**

**Disclaimer:** See preceding disclaimers.

-

'_I have to go, Hermione. He needs me,' he said pleadingly._

_It wasn't that she didn't want him to help his friend; she just didn't want him to leave her._

'_Please don't go,' she whispered. _

'_I must.'_

Hermione squeezed her eyes against the already cascading fluid that so effortlessly seemed to carry her throbbing heart far away from itself. But she couldn't stop remembering. She couldn't stop the memory so close and so clear in her mind. She couldn't stop it. She let it take over. She let it wash over her like a dream which it in itself had become over the past year—a year that stretched so long in her mind, it felt endless and without beginning; everlasting.

Everlasting pain.

'_Let me go with you,' she said through her tear-blurred vision._

'_No,' he said, turning around completely and looking at her. 'You won't go. Men will fight first. You are not a man.'_

'_I'll disguise myself! Honestly, Ron! You can't really tell me you _agree_ with all of that 'save the women and children first' crap!' Hermione was suddenly furious. Her stubborn opinions on human equality had ever-so-inappropriately enveloped her original reason for wanting to fight with Ron._

'_It's honourable,' Ron had said faintly, not looking at her. It was evident Hermione was not paying close attention to his unusual behaviour. If she had, she would have noted his dishonesty. _

'_You think it is right to leave your family for what's "honourable" Ron? Really, there's a difference between being noble and being sexist, Ron, and you've decided to follow the latter!' Hermione was highly disappointed that the only reason she wasn't able to go was because her best friend—the man she really loved—had decided to follow his macho instinct before indefinite fate. 'Honestly, men. Killing themselves off slowly over time 'cos they can't get over their pride! Do you know that females place fifty-two percent of the entire global population? Hell, it's no wonder it's so bloody difficult finding a suitable husband!'_

'_You're not fighting, Hermione,' he said sternly. _

'_Why not? Because _society_ thinks I shouldn't? Bollocks!'_

_Ron slammed his fist on the table in frustration and anger. 'Damn it, Hermione! I won't let you go because I won't let you die out there! Alright? _I'm_ going to fight alongside Harry—we'll be back and you'll be here. Safe.'_

'_How do you know, Ron?' Hermione asked, shaking with what seemed to be much too overwhelming of an emotion to name. 'How do you know I'm not going to be taken away—or—or _killed_ right here in this house, huh? How do you know _you're _not going to be murdered on the frontlines? How do you know, Ron? How?'_

_Ron's bright blue eyes flashed with emotion momentarily as he locked his gaze on Hermione. 'Because I won't let it happen—'_

And yet Hermione felt like screaming in rage for her loss. He had let it happen—he had let himself get taken away. He forgot about Hermione and fell in love with someone else. He _let_ Hermione fall. He let himself not catch her. He let her become so lost and he let her forget herself. He let her love him. He let this heartbreak happen to her when he'd gone.

He'd done it.

But she had continued it, feeding upon her misery as though it would somehow soothe whatever pain lurked beneath what used to be her placid exterior. Facing the mirror in her flat for what was the first time in a few weeks, she studied herself thoroughly, faintly pondering how she let herself become what she was now.

What she was now was an old light bulb obscured by a very thick lampshade which seemed to have the very essence of her embedded within it, but still she was not seen. She had steadily grown dimmer and dimmer until the initial employment of the lampshade was overlooked; it gradually encased Hermione within its shredded fibers that were inevitably woven into each other—tightly, so that light was inescapable. Tightly, so Hermione could not escape herself.

Her cheeks were splotched not with dirt, but with streaks of tears that had left their penetrating markings through the grime which so victoriously remained a hold of her face. Her eyes appeared like the many cups of coffee left unfinished by a woman who refused to live past the night that changed her life forever. The torment, pain, and suffering were evident in those same brown pools; sad and tired and usually drifting into a heavy, restless sleep filled with nightmares. Nightmares about Ron dying; nightmares about never being loved again; a nightmare she was living; a nightmare from which awakening could result in yet another lapse of a world without a world and a life without living . . . a life in which she had so carefully invested an entire year.

'I hate this,' she whispered, shaking violently as she stared at her reflection. 'I _hate_ this!'

'Have you ever considered cosmetic surgery, dear?' said her mirror sleepily.

'Ugh!' Hermione whipped out her wand and for so many inexplicable reasons she hastily muttered a spell which caused a large crack in the upper left corner of her mirror. A rather high-pitched sound followed the first crack of the mirror and the small crevice Hermione had magicked just so the mirror would shut up had suddenly taken over the reflection of the shocked expression on her face. It spiraled, forked and entwined her delicate countenance within its nasty and sickeningly melancholic fragmented surface. Her distorted reflection peered back at her through the broken-looking glass.

Vile as it was to be cursed with seven years of bad luck, Hermione smiled. She had cracked the surface. She had broken through her exterior. She had freed herself from that horrible reflection: sad eyes, tired face, weak fingers, chapped lips, tangled hair, and a broken soul. She quickly slipped out of her clothes casting wicked glances at the mirror. _Nothing's worse than last year. If anything, I'll be cursed and become Ron's maid of honour at his wedding. Nothing could be worse than learning he's gotten himself a soul mate and has somehow entangled _my_ soul and _my_ heart in his stupid idiotic self. Funny thing is he doesn't know and doesn't seem keen on letting them come back any time soon._

'Why'd you have to go and fall in love with him, Hermione?' she asked herself as she finally managed to untangle the scarlet ribbon from her hair. She glared at the ribbon. 'Idiot,' she muttered to herself. 'You even had to keep this stupid thing, too.' Hermione took one last look at the ribbon and she reached for her wand atop the sink. It toppled over and fell into her rubbish bin. Her eyes widened. She had charmed that bin to immediately consume whatever she threw into it, and just as she had feared, it had completely disappeared into its seemingly shallow bottom.

'Bloody hell!' she shrieked. Even though she'd only had that wand since a rather callous Death Eater had stolen her first one, she had grown quite attached to it. _At least Ollivander decided to open up a shop in Hogsmeade,_ she thought. _Maybe he'll be able to recommend me another replacement._

_-_

'_Not as good as the first one, but it'll do,' the old wizard said, handing Hermione a long, thin box._

_She only nodded at him. She hadn't been able to speak since her last encounter with a group of unnaturally cruel Death Eaters. Ron pulled her into a one-armed hug, giving her a very sympathetic look. 'Thank you, sir,' he said to Ollivander. Ron placed the due amount for the wand on the counter and they exited the shop._

'_You okay?' Ron whispered to her, as though speaking in a normal tone would frighten her._

_She looked up at him. Her eyes were large and sparkling with tears. Ron looked at her sadly. 'It's alright, Hermione,' he said and kissed the top of her head. 'I'm here. I'll always be here.'_

_-_

'Liar,' she muttered angrily. She was still peering into her rubbish bin. It gave a large belch and a malodourous wave swept over her. Hermione screwed up her eyes and scrunched her nose in disgust. 'Men are like rubbish bins,' she decided. 'Full of crap, even when you give them your most treasured possession,' she said. Whether by 'treasured possession' she meant her wand or her heart, Hermione could not decide. It seemed all meaning had just been lost along with . . . everything.

She laughed a crude laugh looked at the mirror—or rather, the pieces of mirror that had successfully remained in place post-destruction. Her distorted reflection scowled back at her. 'What are you looking at?' she asked it bitterly. Then she thought. _What _am_ I looking at? . . . That's not me._

Hermione looked at the floor. It was thick with accumulated dirt, grime and the occasional mould. She couldn't remember the last time she had cleaned it. It only took a few spells, but even wandwork was too overwhelming to accomplish. Had she had her wand, she definitely would have swished and flicked until the watercloset was spotless. Necessary housework, however simple, was too difficult to manage for Hermione. She would only really bother with it in instances such as now, whence she found herself harbouring potentially dangerous weapons: shards of sharp glass.

Carefully, she stepped over the ruins of her cheap, built-in mirror and into the bathtub that would put a compost pile to shame. She pulled the hangings around the tub and turned the knob to the right, as to provide herself some warm water. Instead, a large stream of freezing water encompassed her trembling body. Hermione sprouted Goosebumps immediately. She hadn't been able to pay for her heat that month—the Leaky Cauldron had her fired for her antisocial approach as parlour hostess. She did a very terrible job as hostess, Hermione admitted to herself bitterly. She never spoke to anyone; and refused to serve any customer coffee. She would simply leave a mug and a coffee pot at the table and leave without yet another word.

And someone had the nerve to complain.

_I've no hot water because I wasted my time on a man who never loved me back. Figures that would happen to me. Only I'd be dim enough to become this stuck in the past. _

It seemed somewhat amusing to Hermione that she had used a Time Turner in her third year, smashed all such mechanisms existing in her fifth, and yet managed to live with what seemed the same little hourglass, embedded within her unbeating heart, set forever on a half-turn.

The cold water beat on Hermione's shoulders like sharp, cutting blows. The steady flow of cold numbed her to the core and soon it seemed she was immune to low-temperature water. It was a perfect allegory, she realized, as she scrubbed her skin with an odourless bar of soap, to what had happened to her the past year. She had been so engrossed in loss she had felt only loss and soon couldn't feel it at all, but knew all along something precariously essential was missing.

Hermione absorbed this thought like her hair absorbed the moisture from the lathering substance now sloppily dripping on her head. She had been living a dry life since the moment Ron had left her; she never had time to soak in what had happened . . . it was time she let it all sink in, forget the fear—the brutal fact that even though he had returned, she had still lost him—forget what could have happened because it didn't. And it wouldn't.

She let herself let it go. Let it all go—all the denial, all the restlessness, all the fear.

She was a coward, she found.

Afraid to forget.

So instead, she decided she would reminisce when it was called upon to do such a task. Though presently, she had to move on. She had to be strong for that night, for Ron and his bride-to-be, for her friends, and family, and mostly, for herself.

She would not stop loving him, however.

Not yet, anyway. As the soap and lather washed off, she resolved to do the same with her emotions. In a wave of unfaltering determination, she screamed. The rushing cold water drowned out her sounds, just as she'd hoped it would. Hermione emptied her lungs with one shrill note. Somewhere, she heard a muffled explosion—a bit like glass shattering—and she screamed even louder. She yelled and yelled until her back ached from the exhaustion of her lungs and diaphragm. Panting, she slipped unto the floor of her bathtub and lay there, gasping for air through the pounding water.

She hastily reached for the knob and turned it off. As she pulled back the hangings, pulled a towel off a near rack and wrapped it around herself, she noticed that she was staring at a wall where a mirror stood no longer. Where it once held her revolted expression, a gold lining now framed a patch of paint much lighter than the rest of the wall. Apparently her screaming voice had eradicated the remains of the weakened mirror.

She smiled to herself. She would have to buy a new one . . . and clean up the old one.

--

--

As she had deprived herself of a mirror, Hermione had no idea how she looked. On any other occasion (any other day, actually), she really wouldn't have cared. But now—now that she had seen clear through the gray that surrounded her life—she realized she was _very_ self-conscious. She sported a very classic, trendy sort of look—acceptable for any event—and had pulled her hair up into what she hoped was an elegant bun. Most especially, she wore the necklace Harry and Ron bought her for her seventeenth birthday. It was a silver locket sporting three very distinguished jewels. The smallest, Ron had told her, represented the past, the middle-sized one symbolized the present, and the largest, Harry explained to her with a broad grin, was the epitome of her future: bright, beautiful, and big.

'_Take that to heart, Hermione,' Ron said, and he opened the locket. Inside was a very tiny, wizarding photograph of the three of them, and engraved on the other side was a caption that ran:_

_Free of Mind,_

_Free of Spirit,_

_Free of Heart._

_Love,_

_Ron and Harry_

For one reason or another, Ron had specifically asked for a wildflower to be carved on the back of the locket, 'Where only the curious will find it.'

'Curious' was just how Hermione had been until she remembered.

-

_The summer after Sixth Year was really rough. The last golden day of peace had finally come for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Bill and Fleur's wedding was simple and set in the Weasley's large, lush garden, tended by Mrs. Weasley herself. Fred, George, Ron, and Harry had been especially proud of the lack of gnomes; it had taken them a good portion of the morning to get all of their potato-headed friends into the neighbour's yard. The little gruff gnomes had put up a good fight, not waiting twice to bite Harry's hands into raw sausages. _

_A Wizarding wedding was very unlike a Muggle wedding, Harry had realized. Unlike Hermione, who had 'read about this sort of thing,' Harry was very surprised to learn that a tattoo was necessary in order to bind two persons by law and, in some cases, love. But this 'tattoo' wasn't anything like a Muggle tattoo—an ink needle wasn't necessary at all. In fact, the tattoo wasn't visible, nor placed on skin. He didn't know the specifics, but Hermione had told Harry it was a sort of 'symbolic' attachment to a wizard or witch's embodiment—the two were literally promised to each other the moment they were bound by the enchantment._

_The ceremony was every girl's dream, in Hermione's opinion. Ginny agreed, but was a bit doubtful on the prospect of marrying her own brother. The day was nearly perfect, but only due to the fact that Voldemort still roamed and that Bill had fed upon a pile of raw steaks, as if famished, prior to the entrance of the bride, and had belched somewhat loudly in surprise when she had. Calla lilies elegantly poised in her hands, Fleur had laughed and nearly run to her husband-to-be. That was about two hours ago, and the sun now threatened to end the day by disappearing through the trees._

_Ron had wandered off, away from the party, picking wildflowers—especially field roses and only the very vibrant of forget-me-nots. He held his makeshift bouquet tightly in his hands and sat atop a stump. Hermione had found him there, staring off in the general direction of his brother and Fleur. He looked somewhat depressed, Hermione thought. She decided to sympathize, no matter how much it would pain her. _

'_Bet you'd like one of her, huh?' she asked him._

_He looked at her, as if only just realizing she was there, and looked down, sheepish. Hermione inwardly slapped herself. She had spent an entire year totally upset at the fact that Ron decided to get a girlfriend. And Lavender of all girls—Lavender, who was superficial, shallow, and didn't know an inch of what Hermione knew about Ron. She probably didn't even know Ron hated spiders._

'_Whatever I tell you won't really matter, will it?' he said._

_Hermione was thoroughly confused. She was about to ask him what he meant when he elaborated.._

'_I mean, you probably think I'm some sort of superficial idiot after this last year with Lavender, right?' he asked._

_Hermione didn't know how to say she agreed, but was spared the need to say so._

'_You don't have to answer, you know. I would have thought of me as an asshole as well,' Ron said. 'But just to answer your question, no. I wouldn't want one of her.'_

_He looked down at his hands and grinned, rather adorably in Hermione's memory, and held out his bouquet, offering it to her. She smiled as she took it. For the first time in a long time, Ron smiled appreciatively at his friend. 'Why would I want a French flower when I have a beautiful bouquet of British wildflowers that I've picked myself?'_

_He stood up and draped a friendly arm around her shoulders, as they made their way back towards the party._

'_My goodness, Ron. You are ever the charmer!' Hermione said jokingly, examining the now very droopy bouquet of wildflowers. _

_He gestured at his mother and father and his brothers and sister posing for a photograph near his mother's rose garden and replied smarmily, 'Must run in the family.' _

--

Hermione smiled at the memory. She fingered the locket once more and opened it. There, where the photograph of her, Ron, and Harry should have been, was now a pressing of a tiny blue flower—a forget-me-not. _Strange,_ she thought, wondering how long it must have been there. Hermione stared at it a while longer before deciding it was time to go.

So she did.

--

**A/N:** Well, after reading HBP, I've decided to get this story a bit on that track, and it's sort of brought a bit better of a way to convey the final scene. I hope you all enjoy Hermione's . . . rediscovery of herself. I hope I'm not boring you so much with all of this depressing stuff, but this _is_ a dark story, and everything should stay within the theme unless I decide to break it. And that's not happening just yet.

**REVIEW, MY FAITHFUL READERS, REVIEW!**

**P.S. **Yes, yes. Lavender—I've got to stop trusting my beta readers so much. Thanks to Ford Prefect.


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